Knit and natter
by meldahlie
Summary: An evening at Grimmauld Place. Sometimes, even the cleverest witches need someone to talk to.


Knit and natter

_A/N: If you have exams coming up, the heroine of this piece would want me to tell you to get off the computer this minute and get your revision done! If, however, you don't have exams, or, like Ernie MacMillan, __you __have put in a solid ten hours already, she might unbend enough to allow you to read on..._

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In the small third floor bedroom at the back of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the one with the empty picture frame that made snide remarks but seemed to be physically harmless, Ron Weasley sat down on his bed so hard the old bedsprings squealed in protest. "But it's not fair!" he half-shouted.

"I know it's not fair!" Hermione Granger snapped back from her hands-on-hips pose by the window. "But it's all for the best!"

"Oh, you sound like Per-" Ron stopped. "Dumbledore," he finished lamely, after an awful pause. "All for the best, now just swear not to let the poor chap know a single thing-"

"And we did!" Hermione broke in. "Promised solemnly! So whinging on about it useless! It can't be helped."

"Yeah?! So now Harry's stuck with people you can't even imagine how awful they are, and you say it's all for the best?!"

"Well it is!"

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is!" Hermione's voice rose shrilly. "It's- it's – it's like birthdays! Keeping you out of the kitchen so you don't see your cake until tea-time sounds mean – but isn't!"

"And this place is a piece of cake?!"

"It's a metaphor!"

"Oh, you've always got the answer, haven't you!"

As Hermione flushed with anger and the picture frame made a disdainful moue, Ron gave a final glare and flung himself full length on the bed and pulled the pillow over his head. "You know," said the muffled voice, "perhaps Harry IS better off where he is! At least there he hasn't got some know-it-all constantly arguing with him – the Dursleys hardly speak to him at all!"

"But Ron-!" Hermione left the window and stomped over to the bed. "Ron? Ron! Be reasonable!"

The inaudible monosyllable from under the pillow might possibly have been 'Shan't!'

"Stop being so silly!"

"'mm not!"

"Yes you are!"

Ron sat up, maroon in the face. "No I'm Not!"

"Yes you– Oh, forget it!" Hermione turned abruptly and marched to the door. "I only came down to speak to you," she snapped back over her shoulder from the doorway. "But if you're going to be silly, then – Honestly!"

A door was slammed very loudly on the third floor of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Hermione stood on the landing and seethed._ Yes, it was hard on Harry. But surely Dumbledore knew what was best? If you couldn't trust him, what was there? Why else were she, and Ron, and all the Weasleys, and the whole Order, here? And how many times – how __**very**__ many times – at Hogwarts, was Ron __always suspecting Dumbledore of missing something (usually in regards to Snape)?! And how very many times was he __**always**__ wrong?!_

Hermione sighed. What was she to do now? She could go back to her own room. Except her own room was really the girls' room, with Ginny in it. And this evening Ginny, having acknowledged cheerily that she really ought to (a) tidy up the clutter of robes and books and Quidditch magazines all over her side of the room; and (b) do her summer holiday Transfiguration homework; was doing neither. Declining Hermione's offer of help with the essay, Ginny had flopped down on her bed to simultaneously flick through a Martin Miggs comic and write to Michael Corner.

It was so silly! End of third year Transfiguration was so simple! With a bit of help, Ginny could have had the whole thing done in less than half an hour and _then_ been free to write her letter! But Ginny hadn't seen it that way – which was why Hermione had given up and come downstairs to talk to Ron. Well – Hermione eyed the slammed door. She definitely wasn't doing that now. But this strange old house of the Blacks was rather short of alternative things to do in the evenings. It was no good Ginny saying 'do your own homework, if you're bored.' She'd done her homework! Read the books, taken the notes, written her essays, re-written her essays! All of them were at least a foot over the required length, the one for Professor Flitwick two and a half feet over. With those done, she'd drawn up study plans for next year, memorised all the OWL syllabuses, and tested herself on every OWL practice question she had, until there wasn't any more material she could find, in any book, to add.

There was sure to be still stuff she didn't know. For one, Hermione was certain Sirius, as an animagus, could have added something to her notes on human transfiguration. But Sirius, as a human, was too busy being a cooped-up claustrophobic ex-convict and a highly frustrated godfather to be at all approachable for homework.

Hermione nudged thoughtfully at a hole in the carpet. What to do? Short of Ginny's comics, she'd read all the books available – which had to be the most frustrating thing of all about staying here. A house with its own library, and you couldn't read a single book because they were all hexed! And this not being school, she couldn't use magic to solve the problem! Most troublesome books, those in the restricted section at Hogwarts for example, were easy enough to control with a few simple spells (admittedly, she'd had to resort to physically strapping up the Monster Book of Monsters – but that hadn't been a _dangerous_ book). But here, she couldn't. Besides, the twins were frequently in the library, even though they weren't meant to be. And though they, being of age, could un-hex the books, and were, when Mrs Weasley wasn't looking, they were only clearing the silly ones! Books of spectacular hexes and nasty poisons for their joke shop research– Hermione broke off her chain of thought with another deep sigh. _ Boys!_

But it was no good despairing over them. They were all the same – Harry was probably being equally silly stuck at the Dursley's – _how could Ron say she didn't care about that?! Of course she cared about having to write stupid, non-committal letters! Probably cared more than Ron, since he wrote Harry stupid letters about the Quidditch every summer! And_– but this wasn't finding something to do.

Hermione mentally ticked off her options. Not Ginny; not Ron; not the twins; not Sirius; not Kreacher because he took himself to his cupboard in the evenings and he deserved a right to undisturbed sleep _(no matter what certain idiotic fifteen year old wizards thought!__)._ Crookshanks was shut in the girls' room, to keep him safe – and there was nobody else. Nobody! A houseful of people and nobody sensible enough to talk to! Unless – unless perhaps, just perhaps, Professor Lupin might be here this evening. Hermione considered. Professor Lupin was nearly as sad as Sirius was mad _(werewolf d__i__scrimination, like house-elf __enslavement, was just so Unfair!),_ but he was usually open to rational conversation. It did mean going down four flights of nasty stairs that were decorated with even nastier trophies, but – it would be worth it.

Decision made. Hermione promptly rummaged in her pocket for the small battery torch she had thankfully brought with her. Ron had made no end of fun of it and yes, a _'lumos'_ spell gave far more light – but only when you were allowed to use magic. Though she had brought the torch just to show Mr Weasley, it was coming very much in handy in the dark evening gloom of Grimmauld Place. Even daylight seemed fairly scarce around here, and despite it being summer, the stairs in particular went pitchy black at about five o'clock. There were the gas lamps, but only if you wanted to wake the portraits. Hermione shuddered, and started down the first flight of stairs.

Down, down, down. Nothing to see but one step after another of moth-gnawed carpet lit by the narrow yellow beam of the torch, unless you wanted to look up and see the shrivelled old house-elf heads leering at you out of the darkness. Even the bannisters weren't safe to touch, for they had found signs of bowtruckle damage yesterday and, as yet, no culprit. Hermione drew her hands in closer. Being bitten by an unseen thing in the dark was not a nice thought. It made her torch light seem even smaller and feebler, too; futile against the pressing darkness. In fact, this whole summer seemed like that: a tiny, weak beam surrounded by the sort of nastiness which lurked brazenly all over this house. Coming to stay with the Weasleys for a whole six weeks of the holidays had sounded such a good idea, a way to learn about all the little details of everyday magic she could not observe elsewhere. Such detail might be just the difference between passing and failing her OWLs. And being at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had seemed, in theory, even better – to know what was going on, keep up to date with the fight against You-Know-Who despite the idiocies of the Daily Prophet's reporting.

But what was she learning? What was going on? One by one, every step against the Dark Side seemed to be getting pushed back, like a torch battery failing in the dark. Everyday magical life was endless 'cleaning,' with the boys slacking off at every opportunity. The only thing she really seemed to be learning was how to live like a squatter or a gypsy, both of which Hermione sincerely hoped she would not need to know how to be.

Down, down, down, and into the hall. A tiny bit of street light from outside came in here, just enough to see the dim shapes of the locks and chains on the door, the gruesome mass of the troll's leg umbrella stand and the brooding velvet curtains over Mrs Black's portrait. Did they twitch slightly? No, only a trick of the light – but there was a faint, distinct, rattling noise.

Click-click-click, rattle-rattle-rattle. Click-click-click, rattle-rattle-rattle.

Hermione held her breath. Of all the funny noises in this house, and there had been a fair few so far, ranging from Mrs Black's screams to Kreacher and Sirius, who both went about muttering to themselves, she hadn't heard that one before. The door! Was somebody trying the door? Hermione steadied her hand, and lifted the torch beam. Chains, locks and cobwebs formed and vanished in the spot of light, but nothing moved to make that noise.

Hermione listened more carefully. Click-click-click, rattle-rattle-rattle. In fact, the noise wasn't even coming from the door, but somewhere behind her, down the hall. She swung the torch round, and a startled, uncertain voice cried out: "Who's that?"

Mrs Weasley! She had completely forgotten Molly would be around somewhere! The noise had stopped, and Hermione darted forwards to the just-ajar door into the main parlour the Order was using as its meeting room. "It's only me, Mrs Weasley!"

She pushed the door wide, and a tide of golden light flowed out across the hall. A single lamp on the mantelpiece lit up a comfy-looking armchair, a large hold-all bag bulging with balls of wool and bits of knitting, and a very surprised Molly Weasley just rising, wand in hand.

"Oh! Hermione!"

"Sorry. I was just going past – just going to see if Professor Lupin was around," Hermione explained.

Mrs Weasley's face assumed the faintly worried, wary expression it had whenever Professor Lupin was mentioned. "I think he's down in the kitchen with – Sirius," she said carefully, sinking back into her chair. "Looking over some papers for the Order."

"Oh." Hermione slumped against the door frame. That didn't sound like Professor Lupin would be free for conversation. In which case-?

"I was waiting up for Arthur," Mrs Weasley remarked, as she picked up a bundle of knitting and began the click and rattle again. "He's on duty 'til eleven, so I was just getting a few rows in."

"I see." Hermione nodded, and stared rather blankly across the room at the clicking needles. "Um – can I sit in here for a bit then?"

She said it really out of desperation – Lupin busy, Ron sulking, Ginny messing: where else was there to go? – but Mrs Weasley's face lit up like the sun coming out on a grey day. "Of course – here!" Hold-all, wool, bundles of needles, a stack of _Witch Weekly_ 'knitting pattern specials': all were swept hastily off the big snake-legged footstool, onto which Mrs Weasley promptly conjured a softer cushion and patted it invitingly. "There you are, dear. Nice and comfy."

'Nice and comfy' made it sound childish, somehow, but Mrs Weasley was still smiling so genuinely and un-patronisingly Hermione didn't like to back out. She pushed the door to again, and trotted obediently across to the lamp light. It was a comfy cushion. In fact, it felt like the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room; and – they weren't childish. She hitched up her feet to sit cross-legged.

"I don't get much company knitting these days," Molly was saying happily, as she unrolled her work again. "Arthur's – on duty; and the boys are busy, and Ginny's, well, _sportier_ than 'Mum's old knitting.' Too busy as well. I used to knit such a lot with them all, when they were little: nap times and such," she added almost sadly.

"Oh." Hermione nodded, and watched the flashing needles. A big, chunky pattern, in maroon wool. It must be for Ron. Who would, of course, whinge and moan and complain that he didn't like maroon. What did he want to wear, with that gorgeous red hair? Pink?

Hermione looked up in a sudden burst. "Mrs Weasley, did your brothers ever drive you absolutely _SPARE?"_

Molly put down her knitting in a soft gale of laughter, all sadness and anxiety gone. "Goodness, yes! When I was your age, they were awful!" She shook her head, as if fondly at the memory. "And then I met Arthur, and he was in a way, even worse! Sometimes I just wanted to grab them and shake them – the same for the boys now. All of them," she added with a twinkle. "Even Arthur!"

"Even now?!" Hermione exclaimed, sitting up in horror. You hoped, in a way, that one day Ron and Harry might, well, grow out of it, but if Mr Weasley-

"Even now." Molly nodded, and began to knit again. "But mostly, they grow out of it. Like with the jumpers. I must have knitted about three hundred now, including the ones I used to knit for Charlie's stuffed dragon, and Ron's teddy bear. And every one, they all say 'Oh, um, er- thanks.' But you grow out of going spare over it, because they do appreciate them, really. Well – they keep them, anyway."

"Ron does wear his jumpers sometimes," Hermione butted in hastily, as Molly's tone grew slightly wistful. "When it's very cold, in the winter. And to the Quidditch matches – under his robes."

Molly smiled, and turned another row. "Well, that's good. Socks, now – they're a completely thankless task. But again, when you've darned innumerable worn-out heels, you realise that it means they're wearing them, so they've got warm feet..."

Hermione nodded. _Socks..._ Mrs Weasley was still talking, but Hermione's mind wandered absently off along the winding coil of the skein of Gryffindor scarlet wool she had half-pulled out of the knitting bag to finger. _Socks – called to mind Dobby, who was so very thankful for that one old sock of Harry's._ _Innumerable socks, three hundred jumpers ... how many freed house-elves would that be? For that alone it would be worth mastering this strange business of transfiguring yarn into fabric with two needles; but somewhere deeper, more distant, stirred another vision. Warm lamplight by a fireplace, safety in the darkness of war or even in the more nebulous time beyond, when the Dark __S__ide would, for certain, have been defeated by Harry and Dumbledore. And __the soft security of __wool, and rattling, clattering needles, producing maroon socks and jumpers and anything else, for a gangling, red-headed bloke who would have – mostly – grown out of driving you spare..._

First find your castle in the air, then build the ladders to it. Hermione looked up, this time in determination. "Mrs Weasley, would you teach me how to knit?"

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End file.
